


Sacrement

by batneko



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:54:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4302015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batneko/pseuds/batneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working title: Sad Drunk Kitten</p><p>This was written for SteveTonyFest on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrement

As a sixteen-year-old who hated his father, Tony Stark wasn't really aware of the flurry of activity that filled 1919. Sure, he knew the basement was being expanded. Yes, he noticed the upswing in deliveries to the house. But it wasn't until the middle of 1920, months after the accident and the funeral and the will-reading and the sinking realization that he was really alone, that Tony wandered down there and discovered the bounty. Almost literally buried treasure.

 

After some research, Tony learned it was perfectly legal to drink anything you'd owned before the amendment went into effect. Howard was far from the only person, or even business, to stock up.

 

Five years and a few hundred parties later, the basement was dry. Tony was reduced to finding oblivion elsewhere; jazz clubs and coffee parlors and other people's basements. There were ways to make it yourself, at home, and it was more or less legal as long as you didn't intend to sell (and even if he did, Tony could more than afford the bribes to stay out of trouble). But that required a clear head, and patience; both things Tony lacked.

 

What he had plenty of was money, and money could get you anything, especially in New York City. Stark Enterprises was doing fine under Stane, the engine improvements and assembly line machines Tony had developed were safely patented and already rolling onto the market. The money wouldn't run out.

 

And now it was 1925. Tony was 23, richer than Solomon, and stumbling drunk along unfamiliar streets. Not that any streets were familiar in this condition, but Tony was pretty sure it wasn't just the booze that was making the signs look like Gaelic.

 

He'd been directed this way by a fellow speakeasy patron, ejected at dawn. His new friend was ready to call it a night (well, morning), but Tony could still think too well to fall asleep, so the man told him the closest place to get a bottle of wine.

 

It was late, but Tony was thankfully still drunk enough that the clanging of church bells was a beacon instead of a punishment. He weaved his way among the dreary dawn pedestrians, on their way to or from jobs Tony couldn't even picture. A woman muttered something at him in a foreign tongue, but Tony recognized the tone. Would she be happy knowing he was going to church if she knew the reason why?

 

It wasn't Sunday. Tony wasn't sure what day it  was , but it wasn't Sunday. The church, plain and blocky on the outside, was glowing warm with candles and stained glass inside. More importantly, it was almost empty. An old woman was silently praying near the front. A young man clutching a cane was asleep on a pew near the back. As his eyes fell on the confessional booths, a man emerged clutching his coat against his body.

 

There didn't seem to be a line, so Tony took the vacated booth. He sat down, grateful for the tight walls to keep him steady.  Several seconds passed, which in Tony's state meant it was probably more like several minutes. Finally someone on the other side of the grated window cleared their throat.

 

"Oh, am I supposed to talk first?"

 

"It's customary." The voice was warm, amused, with a faint hint of Brooklyn. Was that where they were?

 

"I, uh..." What was it? "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

 

"Do you wish to repent?"

 

Tony considered this.  "Not really."

 

"It's hard to forgive you if you're not sorry." The priest still sounded amused.

 

"Look, I think I only did this once, as a kid. My mom had ideas about my soul but she couldn't get my dad to come, so... You don't care."

 

"I do care."

 

The sincerity in the statement made Tony's skin crawl, or maybe tingle, but either way he was possessed by the strong desire to run away. The box was too small, it was too early, and he was too sober.

 

His friend back at the speakeasy had told him a password. You couldn't just ask for a bottle, or shove money through the grate, you had to prove you weren't a fed. But whatever the word, or phrase, or exchange, it had fled Tony's mind on the trip here.

 

"Swordfish?"

 

The man on the other side of the grate snorted. "No swordfish here, son. But you're welcome to coffee before you go."

 

He was still too sober, and if he didn't get home before the buzz completely wore off he'd be stuck between a hangover and the steadily-rising sun.

 

"Okay," he said.

 

Tony left the booth and fell into the nearest pew, only a couple rows away from the snoring bum. He closed his eyes against the spinning candlelight. The room still felt like it was moving, but maybe that was him, toppling over until his shoulder hit the unforgiving wooden bench and then, blissfully, oblivion.

 

***

 

He opened his eyes to a whitewashed ceiling, the color brighter around the cracks, as though someone had tried to conceal them and only made them more obvious. His head was pounding, his stomach churning, his mouth tasted like old fruit. A typical morning.

 

"What time is it?" he asked the room at large. If it was truly typical he'd be answered by either equally hungover groans, or a shouting policeman.

 

"Noon," a steady male voice said. Tony dared to turn his head enough to see a brick wall of a man offering him a glass. "You've only been asleep six hours."

 

"That's enough." Tony sat up carefully. His head swam but his stomach stayed in place.

 

"Drink slowly," the man instructed as he pressed the cup into Tony's hands.

 

"I know what I'm doing," Tony said firmly, and of course he choked on the first sip.  "What is this?"

 

"Water. If you're good, you can have coffee."

 

"I'm never good," Tony mumbled, trying to save what little remained of his dignity.

 

He had no idea how he'd ended up here, or who this absolute Adonis was, but coffee was on offer and that was enough information to make decisions with.

 

"Will anyone be missing you?" the man asked softly.  Tony laughed, and immediately regretted it, both from the state of his head and the look on the man's face.

 

"You can stay until evening," he said. "Then I have to get to work." He smiled kindly, pityingly. It was a gorgeous smile, but it make Tony feel sicker. "My name is Steve, by the way."

 

"Tony."  Something about Steve's voice was ringing bells in Tony's head, but that may have just been the whiskey. "So uh... Steve. Where am I? How did I get here?"

 

"My place, and on my back."

 

Tony groaned.

 

"You passed out in my church."

 

"That sounds right."

 

"And I help out there, so when you wouldn't wake up I brought you here."

 

He'd brought Tony  home ? A strange unconscious drunk man?

 

"You're too nice," Tony muttered.  Steve just smiled, unreadable.

 

“I’ll make some toast, sound okay?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

***

 

Tony flatly refused the loan of any clothes to get home.  He’d slept in them, but it was late enough that they were still appropriate to wear in public.  Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d hired a cab in last night’s suit.

 

“You should come and see me again some time,” Steve told him.

 

“You’re joking, right?”

 

“Not at all.”  His smile looked genuine enough this time.  “If you need somewhere to spend the night… or day, as it were, you know where I am.”

 

“Well… thanks, Steve.”  They parted with a handshake.

 

Tony didn’t stray far from home that night. There were plenty of friends who hadn’t burned through their stock yet, or who had the same connections the speakeasies did.  In fact, when Tony told the story of his misadventures at church, one of them offered to introduce him to a “personal friend.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Tony chuckled.  “If I don’t have to leave the house to get drunk, I’ll never leave it at all.”

 

The next few days passed as normal.  He spent more time than usual on fixing up the latest old car he’d bought, went to a few of the higher-class joints, and generally was home before dawn.  And then, a week after that misadventure, he found himself turning down a newly-familiar street.

 

It was earlier this time, not yet dawn, no one about.  He could see the glow of the church from a block away.  It really was open all night, no wonder Steve had to help out. Hopefully he got paid and it wasn’t just out of the goodness of his heart.

 

Guilt twinging away, Tony headed inside.  There was no one here this time, unless you counted the bum (Same one? Different?) sleeping in a corner.  Tony wandered around, pretending to look at the candles, until he heard a door creak open somewhere at the back.  A young man with shaggy brown hair was hauling a wooden crate with one arm, the other one tucked into his pocket.  He froze when he saw Tony.

 

“Looking for salvation, mister?”

 

“I’m looking for Steve. Uh, Rogers. He said he was here most nights.”

 

“You’re looking for Steve?” The man frowned suspiciously at him.  “Wait here.”

 

Tony watched him transfer the crate through another door, pushing it open with his shoulder, and a moment later Steve popped out.

 

“Tony! I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Are you okay? Do you need a place to stay? There isn’t an extra bed here but we can roll up your coat for-”

 

“I’m okay,” Tony said quickly.  “I just… wanted to see you, I guess.”

 

Steve’s smile was brighter than the candles.  “I’ll see if Bucky needs help, then maybe we can take a walk.”

 

“Okay.”

 

This was stupid, and crazy. There was no way Steve knew what Tony was thinking, and if he did he’d be disgusted.  Not to mention Steve probably had a hundred pounds on him.  If he found out, and reacted badly, he could beat Tony to a red mash.

 

But somehow, Tony just couldn’t imagine Steve doing that. Not this big, honest man, who’d taken care of a stranger just because he needed it.

 

They walked through a tiny sad park in the predawn, Steve talking about his friends, coaxing Tony to do the same. As the light turned from gray to gold, Tony reached out and brushed the back of his hand with his fingertips.  Steve just smiled. Unreadable.

 

Tony went home, alone, after an hour.  But he felt good. Light. Just being around Steve made things easier. Maybe it was best if Steve never knew about Tony's private thoughts, as tempting as it was, corrupting a nice boy like that would  definitely  damn him.

 

***

 

"What are you doing on Sunday?"

 

Tony looked at Steve over his coffee cup, and took a careful swallow before answering. "Going to mass with you?"

 

"Ha! No. No, not that."

 

Tony relaxed a little.  These last few weeks had been nice.  He visited with Steve every couple days, spending quiet moments together, eating and talking.  Steve seemed to want to feed him, but whether that was an Irish-Catholic thing or he just looked like he needed it, Tony wasn't sure.  Now they were sitting in a cafe Tony had recommended (it served coffee by day, and a rather good gin by night), having breakfast for dinner.

 

"Actually, I wanted to know if you thought you could get us into the World Series."

 

"Oh! Down in DC, right."

 

"We could take the train. I can pay my own way, of course!" he said quickly. "But I'm sure it's sold out by now. Sunday's the only day I can get off work."

 

Tony was a little stunned. Steve had never asked him for a favor before. Tony managed to sneakily pay for meals a few times, but usually Steve wouldn't let him do anything.  Still, for the world series, Tony could understand the desire.

 

"It's all tied up right now, isn't it?"

 

Steve nodded.  "But there’s still four games to go."

 

Tony tapped his chin and pretended to look thoughtful.  "You can pay your own way? Train ticket and all?"

 

"Of course! Tony, I would never ask you if I-"

 

He held up a hand to stop him.  "I'll get us in."

 

Steve grinned, but said, "It's all right if you can't."

 

"I'll get us in."

  
  


It took a few favors, but not the kind of wheeling-and-dealing Steve no doubt expected.  Tony knew people who knew people who were going, and all he had to do was promise to bring the booze.

 

"We'll be squeezed in with a few other people," Tony warned him.  "And the men are bound to get rowdy."

 

"I'm used to that," Steve laughed.  "Thank you Tony. This is going to be great."

 

Somehow, Steve was right. Steve was always right.  Even with the bad food and the lousy weather and the guy who wouldn't stop screaming in the row behind them, it was great.

 

"Almost a perfect game!" Steve exclaimed as they walked out among the crowd of fans.  "Did you see that?"

 

"I was right next to you, I saw it," Tony laughed.  "Think the Senators have it in the bag?"

 

"I don't know, it was still close. If I cared about either team I'd probably be able to tell you."

 

Tony laughed again.  "You're not even a fan of one of the teams?"

 

"I'm from Brooklyn, what do you think?"

 

Tony considered what he knew about the Dodgers.  "I'm sorry."

 

Steve sighed heavily. "Thanks. Hopefully they can pull it together, but..."

 

Tony patted his shoulder.  "Back to the station, then? We'll make it home before it's  too late."

 

"Let's get something to eat on the way."

 

With the crowds and the weather, and not particularly being in a rush, it was nearly midnight by the time they made it back to New York.  Tony had driven to the station that morning, and was planning on dropping Steve off before he went home (or, more likely, out for the night).

 

"Why don't you spend the night?" Steve asked, sounding unusually unsure.

 

"It's not that late, and I haven't had much to drink today. I can get home."

 

"I'm sure you can, but... stay anyway."  Steve reached out and brushed the back of Tony's hand with his fingertips. Tony nearly drove up on the sidewalk.

 

"Y- You know! You shouldn't distract someone who’s driving!"

 

"Sorry," Steve said. It sounded like he was smiling, but Tony was afraid to take his eyes off the road.

 

He couldn't think of what to say. What  did  you say to that? Sure, Tony had enjoyed nights with women, and a few men, but it had always been at parties, or in a parked car somewhere. He'd never been invited to spend the night.

 

And was it really what he thought? Steve was- was a nice boy, a Catholic, he wouldn't be propositioning...

 

Unless he meant it as repayment for the game? Tony's heart sank.

 

He parked near the church and let Steve get out. He sat there for just a second too long to be normal, before turning off the engine and getting out himself.

 

"Tony..." Steve said softly. "You don't have to."

 

" You  don't have to," Tony shot back.

 

Steve gave him an odd look, barely visible in the light from the church windows.  "Come on.  Let's at least talk about this in private."

 

Tony fretted on the blessedly-brief walk to Steve's tiny apartment. One room, one bed, most of a kitchen, and a bathtub covered up with boards when it wasn't being used. It was cozy to Tony, mostly because Steve lived there, but he hated himself the first time he realized he'd taken Steve's bed for the day that first time they met.

 

Steve shut the door behind them firmly, and drew his full height on Tony.  "Now. Do you think I don't want to be with you?"

 

That was straightforward enough, but Tony wasn't sure if he was happy about it or not.  "You don't.  You're... too good, too nice. I don't know how you figured out how I felt, but-"

 

"You weren't exactly subtle."

 

"But I wouldn't have tried to- to draw you into sin!"

 

"Sin?" Steve repeated, incredulous.  "Tony..."

 

"I mean it. I've said you were too nice from the beginning. You shouldn't have been spending time with a guy like me."

 

Steve chuckled.  "I like you Tony. I have from the start, when you were blind drunk and guessing passwords."

 

"Passwords?" But he'd only guessed at it once, in the confessional.  How loud had he been talking, if Steve heard? Unless… that  was  Steve in there?

 

"Did you really think I didn't know?" Steve looked at him, a little stunned.  "Tony, did you think you were  corrupting  me?"

 

"Um... yes?"

 

Steve laughed out loud.

 

"It's not that funny."

 

"It is! Tony I'm a  bootlegger ."

 

Tony stared at him. Steve kept on laughing, wiping tears from his eye.

 

"You're too much, you really are," he sighed fondly.

 

"A bootlegger?  But you... you work at a  church ."

 

"A church that sells communion wine out of the confessional.  Father Kelly needed muscle, to keep the gangs off our back, and I needed the money, so we worked things out."

 

"But- but-"

 

"And  he  didn't corrupt me either.  I’ve had a 'prescription' for whiskey since January 1920.  Granted, a few years ago I looked like I needed it, but time's been kind to me."

 

"But you don't drink!" That was the only thread Tony could seem to seize on.

 

"Not much point. I'm a big fella, it takes a lot to get me there, and I've never seen the need. I save my money for important things. Like baseball tickets."

 

"You're a bootlegger."  Tony shoved his fingers through his hair and sunk onto the bed.  "And I'm an idiot."

 

Steve sat down next to him and patted his shoulder.  "A good-looking idiot."

 

"Oh my god."

 

"I thought you knew. I thought you weren't making a move because, well, it's dangerous.  If the wrong person found out..."

 

"That is a concern," Tony muttered.  He sat up and sighed.  "But money usually makes concerns go away."

 

"Lucky you." It didn't sound bitter, but Tony knew better.

 

"Steve, I... care for you. A lot."

 

"I know.  I care for you too."  He put his hand on Tony's knee, and Tony shivered.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm still trying to wrap my head around this."

 

"Does this help?" Steve leaned in and kissed him.

 

It was soft, and warm, and Steve drew away far too quickly, but when Tony swayed toward him Steve took the hint and did it again.  Harder this time, longer, not stopping until Tony was panting for breath.

 

"Did it?" Steve grinned at him, flushed and a little winded himself.  "Help?"

 

"A little," Tony murmured.  "I might need a few more."

 

Steve obliged.


End file.
